Destruction of Sacrifice
by pleasesayitsnotso
Summary: After the birth of their son, James Rogers, Steve and Natasha have to make a tough decision regarding the fate of their family and battle through the tremulous aftermath. Rating has been changed to T due to foul language.
1. Destruction of Sacrifice

_ "__The toughest sacrifices are the ones we don't see coming. When we don't have time to come up with a strategy, to pick a side, or to measure the potential loss. When that happens, when the battle chooses us, and not the other way around, that's when the sacrifice can turn out to be more than we can bear."_  
— _Meredith Grey_

* * *

Stood in the doorway Steve bestowed his gaze upon the two beings who, unequivocally, possessed his resolute love and devotion, Natasha and their newborn son, James Rogers. He watched as Natasha cradled their son in her arms, her verdant eyes sparkled as they observed her son, and although Natasha would never have been described as maternal, in this moment she was made for it. Looking up Natasha's eyes met the glassy sapphire orbs of Steve's, pulling him back to the present and coaxing a gentle smile to befall his face, causing two charming dimples to appear. With steady and slow steps Steve walked into the room, grabbed a chair and placed it at Natasha's bedside before placing himself cautiously into the seat, as if any loud or sudden noises would shatter this moment revealing it to be the dream he so thought it was. The child had dark hair however in the welcoming glow of the early evening sun it glistened with the fiery red his mother also possessed, whilst they also shared delicate alabaster skin which framed the enchanting azure eyes that his father famously bore. He was perfect. Leaning into Natasha's side Steve observed his son as his eyes wandered scanning the faces of his parents and absorbing the gleaming surroundings of the medical room,

"I think it's your turn to hold him." Natasha whispered into his ear, an amused smirk graced her lips as she saw the astonished look on his face, as if he was shocked to be included in this intimate scene despite his every right and reasoning to be there. With his sturdy arms straight out in front of him and his strong hands cupping the child's head he beheld his beautiful son, and felt the overwhelming surge of pride and love push against his chest. Natasha now leaned into Steve and had linked the arm closest to him around his holding lightly onto his bicep in a tender embrace, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder as she looked upon father and son. However this tender moment was soured by the looming presence of the impending future that this new family would now have to endure, as Steve felt his chest start to tighten painfully and his eyes start to slowly brim with tears. He and Natasha were to be separated from their son. James would not know of his parentage and of the unequivocal love that they both felt for him, they would all feel the never-ending after effects that this separation would induce. That for Steve was more than he could bear. It wasn't until he felt Natasha's thumb lightly brush away a stray tear from his cheek, that he realised he had no longer been able to contain his tears. Pulling his gaze from his son, he proceeded to cast his attention onto Natasha as her thumb lingered on his cheek, as he felt the dangerous tightening within his throat alerting him to the threat of more tears, he managed to utter,

"Nat... maybe we could..." Before Steve could finish his sentence, and despite the painful thickness to his voice and the way his eyes were now framed by an agonizing sorrow of red she firmly stated,

"No." With James now only cradled in one of his arms he gently placed his hand behind Natasha's head and pulled her towards him, placing a kiss on her forehead as he tried to hide the pain that threatened to consume him and the tears that were now stinging his eyes. As he allowed a quiet sob to wrack his entire body he managed to pull away from the protection that was Natasha, she emanated strength, courage and tenacity; although he was renowned for his physical strength right now he needed the mental fortitude that Natasha seemed to implement so easily. Placing her hand softly on his cheek she guided his line of sight towards her, forcing him to meet her eyes, despite his refusal for her to see him this vulnerable,

"Steve... look at me... okay. We decided that for the benefit and protection of our child that we would allow him to be relocated to another family, to take on another identity in order to shelter him from the enemies we have. It's what is best for him; we can't take that away from him for our own selfish reasons. This is the best option we have to keep him safe." Although the steady firmness that Natasha always conveyed when talking was predominant it was garnished with a softness that tried to provide comfort to the soldier, she then slowly let her hand fall from its place on his cheek and ripped her gaze away from the sorrowful eyes of Steve that had now degenerated into a dull mournful grey, she could no longer endure the heart break mirrored in those usually bright and sparkling orbs. Feeling Natasha thread her arms back round his, he felt her softly place a kiss to his shoulder before resting her head back on it in the manner she previously occupied, before once more returning his eyes to the exquisite little being he held before him. This was it. He had fought a war, he had frozen in ice, he had sacrificed his past happiness to ensure that the people and families of the future would not be threatened and separated by the evils of humanity. Yet it was still happening. Yet again Steve Rogers had to sacrifice his own happiness for the future of the ones he loved. **For his son**. Although he had the ever grounding presence of Natasha and he prayed that in the aftermath of this, God would be kind on them both and he would aid the heartbreak that they had so sorely endured. At this thought he found the strength to lower his head towards his sons, placing a chaste kiss to his forehead before whispering, into the haunting silence of the room,

"I'm so sorry... **_I love you James_**."


	2. Defiant Removal

_"I guess that's just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up."  
__— __Lauren Oliver_

* * *

In the month following the heartbreaking departure of James, Natasha and Steve understandably kept themselves to themselves. Steve lost the gentle, charming sparkle his deep azure eyes always seemed to possess and his posture seemed to slump as if in constant defeat. Steve could be withdrawn at the best of times, however now it was more frequent and more often than not he was found just staring into space, his eyes still and lifeless, his expression blank and despondent. He had taken to reading a lot more, as not only did it educate him on the literature that he had missed out on and the modern world he now occupied, but it distracted him giving his mind a different subject to contemplate. Despite the fact he had a room in the Avengers tower, unless in the midst of an important mission, Steve more often than not retired to his apartment where he was able to battle the emotional demons that tormented him daily, away from the sympathetic eyes of his fellow Avengers. Natasha had always been an isolated individual however she had always enjoyed teasing her colleagues and friends, but now the mischievous spark that usually occupied her verdant eyes was nowhere to be seen, and no one could remember the last time they had seen Natasha smirk, her lips missing their trademark expression. Her countenance was now stern and hard, her features fixed in their severe manner, no dimples no signs of amusement adorned the spies face. Her time was mainly spent in the gym, after the birth of her child Natasha had been determined to lose the telling figure she had been left with, as if the elimination of it would also dispel the label of a 'mother' and the haunting memories she associated with it. Although the subject of James was never breached by her fellow Avengers, Steve had on more than one occasion approached the subject wanting to talk to Natasha about it; about how he now felt; about the daunting emptiness that now plagued him. When this occurred Natasha would make some excuse and withdraw herself from the discussion, either feigning an upcoming mission or a message from Fury to meet him in his office. As the days had passed it had also become increasingly painful for Natasha to look at Steve, it wasn't just the sorrowful expression that cast a dark shadow upon his usually light and youthful features, but it was those eyes. Those beautiful, glistening sapphire eyes that their son had also inherited, she couldn't look into them without her mind casting images of James before her eyes ripping at the healing wounds of her psyche. It had also been noted, but not mentioned, that Natasha now dyed her hair jet black, covering up the luscious crimson curls that her son had adopted himself. It was blatantly apparent that Natasha was trying to extinguish every reminder of her son, whether it was physical or mental, inducing her to even start to remove the one person who reminded her most of James. Steve.

Prior to the birth of James, the majority of the time Natasha stayed at Steve's apartment and although it was never officially acknowledged or labelled it was known that they were in some sort of exclusive relationship and were living a charming, if not slightly warped, domestic life together. Natasha kept a few clothes at Steve's apartment and a toothbrush, other than that she swore that her base was very much the Avengers tower, although many refused to believe it. Now however she had been spending more and more time at the tower, slowly and discreetly moving her clothes and any additional belongings from Steve's abode. However Steve had been so wrapped up in his grief and the occupations he had kept himself busy with that he had not noticed her leaving him, slowly letting her grip on him loosen allowing him to wander into the horrifying abyss of a father without his son. Natasha had been equally busy, keeping herself engaged and undertaking a lot more missions in order to escape the emotions that taunted her composed facade, neither had acknowledged the obvious fact that not only had they lost their son, but they were now losing each other.

One cold winter evening Steve arrived home from a mission early, eager to return to his warm comforting apartment and the familiar welcome company of Natasha, he swiftly opened the door to his flat finding his apartment bathed in darkness bar the luminescent glow that emanated from his bedroom. Placing his gym bag down by the door he turned the light on before making his way to the bedroom, finding Natasha bent over a duffle bag where she was now removing the last of her clothes from their dresser and packing them into the bag. His face fell, and he felt his heart sink into his stomach dragging with it the colour from his cheeks. His voice came out shaky, timid and quiet but it was loud enough for Natasha to hear,

"What are you doing?" Natasha looked up finally glancing up at Steve and meeting his sad, disappointed gaze, she had known he was there but had refused to be the first to break the heavy silence. The silence that held the answer to the question they both knew. For a super soldier he looked so small, framed by the door, his brown leather jacket almost looked too big for him now as if the trauma of the past month and the situation currently in action before him had drained the life from him. She felt a sharp tightening across her chest but like with most painful emotions she encountered now a days she dispelled it immediately, allowing the steel facade to shield not only her expressions but her heart. Her voice responded, hard, brash and definite,

"I'm collecting my things." His brow creased in confusion and denial, a frown that she had so often eliminated with a soft kiss from her crimson lips and a hushed word of comfort, but now she was more often than not the cause for this angered expression,

"What? Why? Why... why would you leave me? Why now?" His voice was stronger, louder aggravated by rage and contorted by bewilderment. Natasha hadn't halted her current task; still she grabbed her clothes from the chest of draws stuffing them now with more haste into her bag,

"Because Steve it's time." She turned swiftly on her toes to enter the en suite bathroom to retrieve some cosmetics and perfume of hers before she felt the firm grasp of Steve's hand clutch around her wrist pulling her back into the room with one forceful pull,

"Nat don't you dare try and run away from me, from us. Not now..." His response had been forceful, laced with wrath and fury but as soon as his eyes met hers, his voice broke off, forced to a standstill by the beautiful woman who stood before him. His had moved up to cup her face, his thumb stroking the contour of her cheek, willing her to relax into his touch to give him some sign that there was something there. He was met with the strong withheld defiance and stature of Natasha Romanoff: the Black Widow, her body was clearly tense giving nothing away, her face expressionless, her lips pursed tightly. The only inclination of any response whatsoever was the glassy sheen that had glazed her dark olive eyes,

"Please Nat, not now." His tone had now returned to the soft whisper it had previously occupied, and Natasha could now feel the swell of emotions pushing against her chest willing for release but with one violent turn of her head she pushed them all down crushing them under the weight of aversion, turning her body away from the man she loved. She had loved. That was it. Steve's hand was now left to cup the air, as his mouth was left agape in shock at the dismissive reaction of the woman he adored. A single tear slid down his cheek, burning his skin as it fell as he returned his hand to his side before casting his gaze to the floor in defeat,

"So this is it. This is the end of everything. Everything we ever had." She closed her eyes wincing slightly at the torment and distress that reverberated from his voice, from his words. In the few seconds that followed Natasha concluded that in order to ensure a clean break she would have to make a deadly strike, an assault that would hurt Steve beyond tears and heartbreak, but hit straight into the simmering furnace of rage that Steve rarely expressed,

"There was never a 'we' or 'everything'. We may have shared a bed, a kiss, some affectionate garbage but don't ever define that as 'everything'." The colour that had drained from his cheeks now flooded back, flushing his face ruby red with fury at the poisonous words that Natasha had just spoken. Despite his contorted, heavy brow, flushed face and fixed jaw another few tears crept from his eyes, scorching his cheeks with gleaming tracks. Through gritted teeth he forced out a few final words, before stepping aside to reveal the door,

"Get out." Entering the bathroom she grabbed her make-up bag and perfume stuffing them into the bag, zipping it closed and slinging it over her shoulder before striding forcefully past Steve and out the front door, pulling it shut ferociously. The slam of the door echoed through the apartment, alerting Steve to the loss and emptiness that now occupied his home. A breathe exhaled heavily from his chest, causing his head to drop and a tear to fall to the floor before his limbs surged with fury, provoking an explosive punch to erupt into the bedroom wall, inflicting severe damage.

Natasha halted her vehement stride once outside the apartment; looking back at the door she shook her head, dismissing the regret and misery that threatened her stony facade before striding along the corridor towards the elevator. It was not that the love they had felt for each other had gone, a woman with such fiery passion and a man with such pure and honourable intentions could never permanently extinguish their feelings for each other. No it was that the inconceivable damage they had both endured had not only injured them as individuals but had incurred a wedge to come between them prising an ever expanding void between them. **The relationship that was forged in the fire and flames of war in the modern age would have to await its improbable redemption and liberation from the meagre spark and ashes, the mutilated remnants of what once was.**


	3. Belligerent Aftermath

_"__So it's true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love."  
__― __E.A. Bucchianeri_

* * *

Clint purposefully marched down the corridor, after debriefing Fury on his return from his mission that morning he was looking forward to a cup of coffee and a warm shower before sinking into his deliciously comfortable bed. Coming towards him was Steve, Clint could already feel his body exuding sympathy towards the soldier and his eyes skated over the dejected man's walking form. His shoulders were slumped and rounded and his strides were slow and sluggish, like it was an effort just to move, he lacked his sparkling enthusiasm and soldier-like strength and grace that he always used to emit. Clint's eyes were drawn immediately to a bandage wrapped tightly around his right hand, bright scarlet smears scorching the stark white material, his face was cast down his eyes looked dark and the jovial, youthful righteousness that Steve usually expressed no longer remained. Their paths crossed midway and Clint stopped causing Steve to look up and address him,

"What happened Rogers?" Although Steve and Clint weren't especially close Steve could hear the concern in his voice, reaching out to him attempting to comfort him, instead it pierced him in the gut, another reminder that he must look like a wreck, a wounded shadow of the man he used to be. The man he wished he could be. A weak smile adorned Steve's lips, failing to reach his eyes; it tried to deflect the pain he truly felt, it failed,

"Oh this..." Raising his bandaged hand up slightly, feebly trying to feign the joke that he had only just noticed himself,

"... ummm just went a bit too hard at the gym that's all. It'll be fine; anyway I've got a meeting with Fury so I'll speak to you later." Placing his good firm hand on Clint's shoulder he gently advised,

"Get some rest." Before half heartedly smiling again and continuing down the hallway. Clint knew that Steve and Natasha had not been great, it wasn't hard to see, being Natasha's best friend he could see all the signs of her cutting herself off, pushing everyone away including Steve and himself.

Walking into the kitchen Clint spied Natasha sat at the breakfast bar, one foot was tucked underneath her whilst the other dangled swaying slightly as she ate her cereal. Her dark curls were pulled up into a messy bun and she wore black sweatpants paired with a white tank top. She looked slight, petite and delicate, and that scared him. Walking over he allowed a sigh to escape his lips, allowing his fatigued muscles to momentarily relax and find relief whilst also expressing his exasperation at the situation between Steve and Natasha. Walking towards her, she looked up; no welcoming smile graced her lips, no expression of warmth, just the stern and steely gaze that had become so usual now,

"Hey, how was the mission?" Looking upon her face Clint felt the uncomfortable weight of Steve's wounded and dejected expression push against his chest, as he replied courteously,

"Went off without a hitch, standard acquiring of information." With a nonchalant shrug he slumped into the stool beside her, inhaling deeply and preparing himself for the conflict he was about to undoubtedly throw himself into. Reducing his voice to a hushed and gentle tone he broached the fragile subject,

"Nat, what's going on with you and Steve? I just saw him and his knuckles were smashed to pieces, and if the awkwardness between you two isn't indication enough I can guess it's something to do with you?" With an exasperated sigh and a slight eye roll, Natasha dropped her spoon into her bowl causing a large clatter of metal on china to permeate the comforting silence of the room, before turning her head and addressing a severe and cold gaze upon Clint,

"I really don't think it's any of your business do you?" Her voice was low but rasped with a soft growl of annoyance as she grabbed hold of her bowl and swivelled off the stool, storming towards the dishwasher. Before she had reached her destination Clint stood and grasped hold of her arm turning her to face him, before addressing her through gritted teeth and an expression of clear annoyance,

"None of my business? Are you kidding me? As much as you've been trying to get rid of me you're my best friend and Steve is my team mate, so yes it is my business." As she shook his hand from her arm she slammed the bowl onto the counter before fully turning to meet Clint's enraged response, with a mocking smirk plastered upon her face,

"I thought you would have been one of the first to rejoice at the possibility of me becoming available..." Stepping forwards into Clint's personal space she brought herself uncomfortably close, before bestowing her gaze upon his lower lip, and continuing in a low sultry tone,

"Get back to how things were." At that she let a sadistic laugh erupt from her lips, amused by her teasing and taunting, as Clint stood with an expression of pure rage his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Unable to contain his frustration any longer, his unyielding gaze fixed on hers causing her to abruptly cease her chuckling, as he responded vehemently,

"I always believed that you were worth saving, always but the effect Steve had on you... he saved you in ways no one else could, in ways you didn't even know you needed. Now you can use what happened to you two as an excuse to be an asshole to him, to everyone but just remember he made you feel things you didn't even know you could. **You owe him that much**." Her features remained emotionless, her lips pursed tightly in a straight line, her dull olive eyes continued to bore into his, no longer possessing that spark of light that all who knew her had been enraptured by,

"Fuck off Clint." With a sharp and aggressive shove to Clint's shoulder she pushed him aside and swiftly made her way towards her room, leaving Clint standing alone. Allowing his head to tilt forward and his shoulders to slump and drop in defeat, he felt the burgeoning beginnings of a shit storm brewing.

Despite his past with Natasha he had been thoroughly accepting of her relationship with Steve, knowing full well that if he and Natasha had been suited to one another the relationship between them would have progressed beyond sex. Steve was a good honourable man who exuded honesty and virtue, something which he felt Natasha would benefit greatly from, not to say that she was innately bad but she needed someone who could draw out the goodness that she often doubted she possessed. Steve did that. His love for Natasha was pure and unforgiving, something that all the Avengers including Clint had observed, and despite assumptions it seemed that Natasha reciprocated those affections, if not in a slightly more muted manner. Clint therefore felt the bitter pang of offence at Natasha's poisonous comment regarding his underlying feelings for the spy; he respected her and Steve and had come to admire the strong and adoring relationship the unlikely pair had forged. **The belief he had held that the two of them would be able to withstand distress of any kind had slowly started to wane; as he saw the destructive claws of grief contribute to the painful demise of two beloved friends. The damage he observed convinced him more and more that perhaps there was no coming back for them now.**


	4. Inebriated Affair

_"The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable, is that which rages in the place of dearest love."_

_― Euripides_

* * *

After her fractious conflict with Clint Natasha returned to her room, the one place where she could avoid sympathetic eyes, forced social interaction or the painful possibility of happening upon Steve. Storming inside her room she slammed her door aggressively behind her before turning and violently kicking the bag of belongings she had brought from Steve's the night before. In conjunction with this abrupt expression of exasperation and rage a gruff growl ripped from Natasha's lips as frustration surged through her veins, inducing her to pace frantically round her room, hands placed on her hips and gripping hard in annoyance. After a minute or so she deduced that it would be more appropriate to transfer her pent up anger into physical action, and so dressing in a pair of black yoga pants, a black tank top and her trainers she made her way out the door, grabbing her towel and water bottle in haste, before heading towards the gym.

On entering the gym she found it was quiet knowing that Clint had recently returned from a mission and that Steve has busted his hand, she deduced that it was highly likely to be deserted. Just as she liked it. Walking up to the punching bag, she placed her water bottle and towel on the ground before unleashing a violent flurry of punches and kicks assaulting the hanging bag and causing it to swing haphazardly in all directions, prompting her to adjust and hit accordingly. Recently a considerable amount of her time had been spent in the gym, not only to tone and eliminate the body that reminded her of the child she had carried, the role she had been assigned but never undertaken, but also it helped to channel her emotions. She spent so much of her time concealing her emotions, pushing them into the pit of her stomach and allowing them to simmer, but never to erupt and break the surface of her well set facade that the gym was a place where she could unleash those contained feelings without constraint. A way of unleashing emotions that was not a show of weakness but a show of strength, and productive in her line of work, time well spent rather than time wasted on self pity, heartbreaking reverie and shattering loss. As her punches increased in speed and pace, she felt the heat of exertion start to prick her skin, withdrawing beads of sweat which trickled over the contours of her well sculpted and muscular form, a show of her efforts. She revelled in the tightening pain that ebbed into her muscles, notifying her that her body was working hard, was beginning to fatigue but this spurred her on further as she interpreted its message as a challenge. It was as if the presence of Steve and the birth of their child had ripped at the walls of the Black Widow, clawing at its hard exterior, exposing the soft underlay of a woman who had started to believe in love, but now all that work was being reversed. The progress that had brought her so much happiness had also brought destruction and heart break, a process that now replaced those gaps with the hardened bricks of resilience and detachment. Gone was the woman who could have been a lover, who could have been a mother, who could have had it all.

After a hefty work out spanning most of the morning and afternoon, concluded by an in-depth investigation into a number of recent criminal cases involving potential terrorist units and leaked confidential government information, Natasha retired to her room managing to avoid any of her fellow Avengers much to her relief. Now dressed in a pair of plaid shorts and a loose white t-shirt, she scoured the room for a jumper to wear, before eyeing a burgundy number grabbing it and starting to pull it over her head. However as the material started to skate over her arms, she inhaled deeply and was met by the strong masculine aroma that immediately conjured images of the golden haired soldier. As an immediate response she swiftly wriggled out of the garment, wrenching it from her body before flinging it to the floor in abhorrence, partnered by a snarled frustration,

"You've got to be kidding..." Combing fingers through her tousled dark tresses, that had been ruffled in her skirmish with said jumper; she allowed a heavy sigh to release before kicking the jumper away from her, as if it merely being in proximity to her was bad enough. Turning away from the offensive garment her hands came up to her face, her fingers rubbing along the ridge of her nose up towards her forehead, before gliding across her brow line and back down towards her cheeks, as if brushing away the creases in her stony concealment. Walking towards her bedside cabinet she fished out a bottle of vodka that she had already drank a third of, pulling it out she admired it before her eye caught the movement of a piece of paper falling back into the drawer. The last time she had reached for this bottle she had struggled to piece together the remnants of that night, only knowing that when she had woken in the morning she had felt the dull continuous thud beating at her temples along with a menagerie of answer phone messages from Steve, concerned for her wellbeing and worrying about her whereabouts. Allowing a frown to assault her features almost instantly in bewilderment, she bent down to procure the mysterious document, before bestowing her gaze upon the offending image and wishing that she hadn't. It was her 13 week baby scan. The scan showed the small, fuzzy, monotone figure of her son, so small, so new, so perfect. With the image still held tightly in her shaking hand, her body descended slowly in defeat as she perched herself on the edge of her bed her eyes never once leaving the scan. She could feel the emotions she fought so hard to contain, push forcefully against its constraints begging to be released, she felt the sharp stabs of guilt pierce her abdomen, inducing her entire body to tighten and throb at this influx of discomfort. It wasn't until she saw a tear drop from her cheek and fall on to the scan that she realised her walls had bowed and weakened, allowing a smidge of her underlying anguish to leak through her mask, scorching her cheeks with tormented tears, blurring her vision and eliminating the image of her son. At the revelation of this lapse of control, she flung her head up ripping her gaze from the reminder of what once was, before assertively chucking the image back into the draw and vigorously kicking it closed. Her eyes scanned for the whereabouts of the vodka bottle and once locating it, she contemplated the possibility of acquiring a glass, before deciding that it wasn't necessary and bringing the bottle to her lips she took a large swig of her favoured spirit. The clear liquid flowed down her gullet, the satisfying burn scorching her throat and causing a contented gasp to escape her lips and her eyes to fall shut.

As the minutes passed her steady descent into a drunken oblivion spiralled at an alarming speed, as she indulged in the sorrowful melody that reverberated around the room and allowed the numb euphoria that accompanied copious amounts of alcohol to bestow its welcoming spell. She wanted nothing more than to forget what had happened to her, how she had allowed herself to indulge in the belief of love and family she had no idea. It had become painfully clear that the revulsion and disgust she had harboured against herself for this show of weakness had manifested into a destructive demon that she frequently projected on to others, Steve being the main victim. Although she knew it was unfair on all those around her, it was the only way she knew how to cope; to revert back to the Natasha of old was her only choice, to forget that any of this ever happened was her solution. As she lay situated comfortably on the bed, allowing the waves of drunkenness to pull her under, she felt the undeniable flush of heat diffuse rapidly across her skin, burning delightfully, as her vision now deteriorated into a blur of colours and shapes, accompanied by a wild spinning that caused her movements to become ungainly and blundering. She revelled in the feeling of nothing, the ability to forget just for a moment was her greatest luxury, however she soon felt the burgeoning desire for another pleasure and she knew just where to go. Pulling her now seemingly impossibly heavy limbs from the bed she shuffled precariously to the edge before rolling unceremoniously off and onto the floor, inducing a release of hysterical laughter to pour rapidly from Natasha's lips as she lay splayed out on the carpet before sitting up slightly. Her amusement however was short lived as through her hazy gaze she spied the burgundy jumper that once belonged to Steve; her laughter subsided rapidly replaced by an expression of pure contempt. Scrabbling clumsily across the floor on her hands and knees she grabbed hold of the jumper, before forcefully ripping it in half, accompanied by snarls of aggravation and words of hostility through gritted teeth,

"Will you just... FUCK OFF!" The tattered remains of what once was a beloved garment now flew across the room, hitting the wall and landing near the bin. Satisfied with her outburst, she looked around again before spying her desired object: the bottle of vodka. However on closer inspection the inebriated red head found the bottle to be empty, allowing another burst of rage to consume her, the bottle followed the fate of the jumper, as she forcefully launched the object towards the wall allowing the satisfying smash and tinkle of broken glass to resound beautifully in her ears before scrambling up to standing. Once she had managed to steady herself, and focus her gaze just enough to be able to deduce the location of the door she blundered across the room her steps heavy and lumbering. Although considering the quantity of alcohol the spy had consumed, it was clear that her physical capabilities meant she was able to control her movements more effectively than the average person, who most likely would've been unconscious. Exiting her room she made her way along the corridor swaying noticeably, her intended location fixed within her drunken stupor.

* * *

Clint indulged gratefully in some down time and after an appropriate period of sleep; he awoke, raiding the kitchen for snacks before scurrying to his room intent on abandoning himself to the pleasure of copious amounts of TV. Laid contentedly across his bed Clint's attention was fully focused on the programme before him, however he had been fighting a continuing inner battle against his burgeoning worry and concern for Steve and Natasha. His interactions with both of them had awakened the fear that things between them were far worse than he first imagined, and he couldn't help but feel that the tension between the couple was a ticking time bomb, awaiting detonation in which their tentative relationship and the whole concept of the Avengers Initiative would be destroyed in one foul swoop. As Clint had once again drifted off into an apprehensive reverie, he was abruptly interrupted by the distant sound of heavy footsteps coming towards his room which then led to his door being aggressively kicked in by a heavily intoxicated Natasha. Sitting up hastily, an expression of alarm and annoyance sculpted the archer's features as he yelled assertively at the inebriated red head,

"WHAT THE HELL NAT?! Was that really necessary?" Natasha turned slightly, slamming the door shut behind her before swanning further into the room an amused smirk graced her lips, her cheeks sported the hot crimson blush of a drunken individual, and her eyes were set low and heavy, clouded by lust and alcohol. Her voice was rich, dulcet and languid; her words fell with delicious ease,

"Oh shush Barton... you love it." Clint could tell by her body language and the way she spoke what her intentions were and he didn't like it. Despite the temptation to indulge in the feel of her delectable curves beneath his hands, against his body all over again called to him invitingly, he would never allow his desire to cloud his judgement and contrive against the few morals he still held. Swinging his legs across the bed, enabling him to stand he spoke his stern and steely warning,

"Nat, behave." Walking towards him she swayed her hips provocatively, showing off her toned legs and the decidedly alluring curvature of her hips, before placing herself in front of him and as she gently rested one perfect petite hand on his shoulder she brought her lips to his opposing ear before whispering seductively,

"What's the fun in that?" At that he felt the enthralling warmth of her breath brush closer to his skin and before he knew it her mouth started its assault on his neck, the feel of her luscious mouth burning a trail of kisses, interspersed with the provocative grazing of her teeth along his pulse point. His eyes momentarily closed in pleasure, a gasp of bliss escaped his lips, and it wasn't until he felt Natasha's hands start to creep underneath his t-shirt that he realised this wasn't a dream. It was happening, and it shouldn't be. At that thought Clint grabbed hold of Natasha's wrists before pulling her away from him and casting a severe gaze upon her he firmly stated,

"Natasha, no. Stop this now." Her murky green eyes, blazed brightly with desire and defiance, as swiftly and powerfully Natasha flicked her wrists in a manner that allowed her hands to break free. She now grasped his wrists, as she pressed her body into his, allowing him to feel the delectable swell of her breasts against his chest inducing every muscle in Clint's body to tighten in restraint, as the tip of her tongue skated across the bottom of her lip in the most enticing manner,

"I don't think that's what you really want." Her features were generously embellished with mischief, desire and amusement, as she wore the famous smirk that had become so rare these days and her eyes sparkled with wild abandonment as she assessed her prey, her long lashes enhancing her bewitching glances. Her body was now pressed against his and from the drunken obscurity swamping Natasha; she administered a forceful push on Clint's wrists in a manner which caused him to slump back on the bed. Her hands still held his wrists in a steely vice like grip, as she slowly placed her knees either side of Clint's hips, allowing her to straddle his lap the way she knew he adored. Her eyes maintained contact with his the whole time, the delight and amusement of how powerless he was within her clutches danced victoriously across her features. Clint's body remained staunchly rigid, not a single muscle in his body relaxed, as he feared if he did so his body would lose utter control and he would allow himself to readily be consumed by the desire and temptation that pounded forcefully at the pit of his stomach. His jaw was clenched; causing his teeth to grind together in response to the struggle against his body for control, his voice therefore came out strained and tight,

"Natasha, stop this right now. Stop it." At that comment an illustrious laugh erupted beautifully from her crimson lips, as her head tilted back in pure glee at the pathetic delivery of his plea. Once her hilarity had subsided and her gaze had once more been bestowed back onto Clint, she lunged forward, her lips colliding with his in the rough and brazen manner that she knew Clint had always revered, in an exquisite combination of tongue and teeth her lips devoured his. As she continued her brash and insistent assault on Clint's mouth, Natasha ground her hips into his, pushing her body as close to his as possible in order to coax the desired response from the archer. For a moment Natasha started to revel in the oncoming success in her conquest of Clint, as her hips rutted in a frenzied passion and soft moans managed to pour from her occupied lips, allowing her hands to loosen slightly in their grip on his wrists. A gratuitous error on her part. In a response of pure distaste and a surrender to the inevitability of there being no kinder, nor less abrupt, way of dealing with the current situation Clint fought against the desire that emanated through his limbs, burning with a yearning heat, as his hands ripped away from her grasp allowing him to pull her off his lap and onto the bed. Hurriedly he stood placing himself a considerable and safe distance away from the bed and Natasha. His face was flushed scarlet, whether that was due to arousal or anger it was hard to deduce, his hands were clenched tightly into fists so much so that his knuckles had turned a bright white. Alarm and annoyance now consumed Natasha's features, as she glared daggers towards him before jeering at him, her voice dripping with venom,

"WHAT THE FUCK CLINT?!" Momentarily Clint closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath and clenching his fists harder, before exhaling and turning swiftly to meet Natasha's gaze, ready to confront the vicious storm that he had only waded into slightly that morning. His voice was stern and severe, low and controlled however each word he uttered stabbed into Natasha's heart preying on the weakness and vulnerability that her unmerited consumption of alcohol had exposed,

"No, Natasha. I've had enough, I'm not going to tiptoe around the subject any longer. You had a son, with Steve Rogers... a man you love. You are a mother... so just stop this, stop this now because as much as you're hurting so is Steve, he needs you. He needs the mother of his child to listen to him, to be there for him as much as he is there for you. Nat, you can deny what you are, what happened, what you feel but you will never be content... ever. Having sex with me won't fix that, it won't mend the damage you've endured; it won't eradicate the grief that I see in your eyes every day. It won't replace the child you lost, or the man you love who you're starting to lose. You may be a mother without her child, but remember Steve is a father without his son." At that Natasha dragged herself from the bed, her cheeks no longer held their bright colour and her eyes now held tears on the verge of falling; her mouth was set in a defiant line, her expression blank. As she stood she swayed slightly, before striding towards him and placing herself right in front of him, her lips barely moved but within the tense silence that encapsulated them he heard the deep, sharp cut of her words,

"How dare you tell me what I feel and what I've gone through. You have no fucking idea Clint, no idea." As she sauntered, past Clint towards the door, she hesitated and allowed herself to turn back towards him, he stood there looking at her with eyes that wanted so much to heal her wanted to make her better. She'd never seen him look so helpless in her life, and that terrified her. In the glint of the light he could see that a tear had managed to escape, leaving a glistening trail down her cheek, and when she spoke her voice sounded impassive as if it was not connected to the broken and turbulent woman who stood before him,

"I pray to God you never know." As she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her Clint felt his body crumble as if she had extracted every piece of him that was for her, and he hoped that he had gotten through to her somehow. **She was this swirling, crimson fire that had ignited his life with an excitement and passion that he never thought he would encounter, he loved her and he wanted her to fight against the grief and rage that now plagued her. He wanted her to fight not just for herself, but for Steve and James too. They deserved that, she deserved that.**


End file.
